They Could Be Something
by merendina
Summary: Marco can't suppress a small surge of pride at the thought that, when it comes to coordinated maneuvers, no one in all the class can outrank the two of them. / JeanMarco. Army school feels.


_**A/N:**_ _Prompt: "things you didn't say at all." Written for wordmelody on Tumblr._

 _For the record, I was tempted to end it at the damsel part, but there is no happiness in JeanMarco land, it seems. Also, I'm sorry Jean is so politically incorrect and stupid. (Said with love.)_

* * *

Marco can't suppress a small surge of pride at the thought that, when it comes to coordinated maneuvers, no one in all the class can outrank the two of them.

 _7m-class coming up behind._ It's an improbable match, to say the least. Everyone complains about Jean's laziness, his self-interest, his short fuse. Consequently no one can get their head around the fact that Marco, sweet, dependable Marco who has sunny smiles and hope and good nature in spades, can trust him as much as he does when he's up in the air anticipating an imaginary attack from a cardboard titan—but Marco knows that in the field there are only so many things you can rationally explain. That you can explain, period. A soldier needs to keep the verbal communication to a minimum, and Jean had him at "PUT ME ON HIS TEAM… SIR."

 _I'll draw its eye downward. You loop up and back to get the nape._ Marco knows the best soldiers can run the most intricate plans by one another without a word, just a few seconds of pointed eye contact and a lot of good faith.

 _4m-class at 2 o'clock with damsel, back to us._ Jean inclines his head toward yet another model, being pulled upright by ropes a short distance away. There is a sandbag tied to its hand. They can just barely make out the haphazardly drawn face, the mass of pale yellow yarn on the "head" that looks vaguely like Armin's hair—they share a smile, fast flash of white teeth in the shadows. _Leave the neck to me; you go for its fingers, catch her and retreat up into the trees._

Even if at this point they've never even seen a real titan and their skills are still close to nothing, Marco knows from the way their bodies just fall into step as if it's the easiest thing in the world, simpler than drawing breath—they could be something, one day, the two of them. He is certain of it when they drop their "damsel," the fake Armin, at their instructor's feet, a full twenty seconds ahead of the rest of the class. Jean's grin looks about ready to split his face in two, and Marco's cheeks are so sore that he's sure he looks much the same.

Never mind that Shadis yells at them both immediately after because you don't just drop a lady on the ground, goddammit, much less so soon after she's almost become titan food.

They can spend all night talking, about home and their dreams and their classmates and the blackness of Mikasa's hair, but the most important things don't nearly take that much time or effort to convey. This wordlessness carries over into everything they do, all throughout their training years. It will take them through graduation, through a long and fruitful term of service in the MP, all the way to the liberation of the world; they are certain of it.

For instance, at mealtime: _Do you want my bread?_ Jean has a small appetite, but if he remembers right Marco's used to working the fields, and needs to eat much more to be up and about. All he needs to do is nudge his plate a little to the side, and Marco's hand comes out of the corner of his vision—and when he looks up, that smile. _No wonder you're always so hungry; how much energy do you spend smiling so damn much?_

And after a particularly grueling hand-to-hand session: _Let me clean up that cut for you._ Jean eyes the cotton balls and the bottle of alcohol in Marco's hand and nearly scoffs, but lifts his bangs away from his face to bare his forehead anyway. Marco is strangely light-handed, gentler even than the girls with his first aid. _Otherwise I know you'll just leave it alone, and it'll get infected and fester._

The day Trost is breached, after being told they're to reinforce the vanguard: _Stay safe._ Marco's eyes in the dim lamplight of the supply room are soft. Jean grabs him by the arm, hand fisted so hard in the fabric of his sleeve the knuckles go completely bloodless. _They'd better fucking put me on your team._ Or, possibly, _Don't die._ Or, _Stay with me._

It may well be their last day in the world. Maybe just this once, it would be appropriate to say something. Marco looks for a moment like he's going to cover Jean's hand with his own, thinks better of it, grasps his arm instead. Jean's mouth opens, but the words don't quite come, because they don't have much time and at this point they're too used to being quiet together.

 _Hey, man, cut it out. That's gay._

They share a smile, older, tighter, fast flash of white in the shadows. _I'll see you when we win._


End file.
